


The Ball at Saint-James

by Esteliel



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Les Chouans - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Captivity, Duelling, First Time, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Strip Duel, There Is Only One (1) Goatskin, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21734566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Corentin decides to attend the ball of Saint-James undercover. It is not long until his cover is blown and he finds himself fighting a duel to the death...
Relationships: Corentin/Hulot
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



The ball at Saint-James was their best bet of entrapping the Gars. They all agreed on that—even Marie.

And yet, Corentin was no longer certain whether Marie’s intentions towards the Gars might be trusted. It was true that Corentin had negotiated a considerable sum for her, which would allow her to live her life in great comfort if she succeeded in her mission. Still, knowing Marie, he could not deny that the young man was very attractive: a marquis, leader of the Catholic armies in Brittany, by all reports a courageous man, who would appeal to that passionate side of hers that longed for adventure and great romance.

With that knowledge in mind, it seemed ill-advised to let Marie travel to Saint-James on her own, with only Francine for company. Nevertheless, Corentin was just as certain that she would not have his company, had he offered it. He considered too whether Commander Hulot might be convinced to send some of his men with him—but could Corentin trust them? And then, men of Fougères might be costumed as Chouans, but could Corentin? Likewise, Corentin himself had no doubt that he might easily pass as a royalist, once he made it to Saint-James—but would not Hulot’s men immediately give him away?

If he intended to keep an eye on Marie’s plans, he would have to go on his own. Montauran still did not know who Corentin was—he might think him a Republican spy, but all the same he had been taken in by Corentin’s pretense and thought him a foolish dandy with no taste for fight. In any case, surely Montauran’s presence might be avoided even at Saint-James. Corentin merely needed to be close enough to observe Marie’s actions—and if she failed, to strike himself.

Even if Marie were to switch sides, the marquis might be too distracted by his own passion and would never notice a spy slipping into his bedchamber with a dagger—or indeed the small amount of poison Corentin carried concealed in one of the two pocket watches that graced his waistcoat with their golden chains.

His decision made, Corentin waited until the day had come that Marie’s carriage left Fougères. He dressed carefully; he had spent much of the past evening carefully wrapping his hair around strips of paper, rolling it up and allowing it to dry over night, so that now, his face was framed by golden corkscrew curls, as was the fashion in Paris at the time. He wore tight-fitting trousers of yellow doeskin, a shirt of the finest white linen, a waistcoat of striped silk in orange and green, and his coat was cut from a fine wool dyed blue. A cinnamon-colored cravat of silk around his throat completed the carefully chosen outfit, into which he had pinned a cameo of black silver.

His horse was a slender Arab, lithe and tireless. Given the state of Brittany’s roads and the natural defense of hedges and gates that divided the fields, he would have no trouble keeping pace with Marie’s carriage for the fourteen miles that lay between Fougères and Saint-James—indeed, he might arrive much earlier, unless he had the misfortune of running into a band of Chouans.

Fortunately, most Bretons would be gathered at Saint-James for Montauran’s ball. No, it might be folly to attempt to ride to Saint-James without the safety of a Republican escort, but surely today was the day such an attempt might succeed.

***

It was not until he drew close to Saint-James that Corentin first ran into trouble. For most of the journey, his theory had proven correct: the Chouans who might hide in the gorse, watching the roads, had all abandoned their posts so that they would not miss out on the feasting. Several times he had thought to have seen the glint of a weapon on a distant hillside, but he rode fast and with confidence, making straight for Saint-James, dressed in finery and without an escort, so that they had not dared to shoot at him.

Before him, he could see now the houses of Saint-James. The meadows that spread outside the town were bustling with people. Everywhere he looked were groups of Chouans in their distinctive goatskins and hobnailed shoes.

He had slowed his little Arab to a walk, taking in the sights as he allowed the horse to find his way through the crowded plain. At the edge of the field, there was a small contingent of English soldiers, too, whom he made certain to avoid. They seemed to have brought a cannon—no doubt to teach the Chouans how to use it, which Hulot would certainly be grateful to have advance warning of.

Every time Corentin rode past groups of Chouans, their conversation would cease and they would peer at him—some in suspicion, most of them in amazement, for they had gathered here to witness the ball and the meeting of the leaders of the royalists. It was only natural to think him one of their allies—a relative of the Baron du Guenic, perhaps, or a man who had only recently come from England to join the Marquis’ forces.

Once or twice, someone spoke to him in Breton. Corentin only smiled in response.

“Which way to the Marquis, friend? I fear I am quite lost here—there’s a ball tonight to which I’m invited, but my horse is not used to your Breton roads.”

In lieu of an invitation, he presented the glove with its green ribbon—hastily sewed by a seamstress of Fougères, it was an adequate likeness to that which Marie had carried back with her. He was confident that no Chouan wearing goatskins would be able to tell the difference between the glove he held in his hand and the finely stitched leather that had graced the Marquis’ hand. By the time Corentin was among men who would be able to tell the difference between a seamstress of Fougères and one of Paris, he doubted that the glove would be necessary—in such company, his manners and dress were a better proof of his right to attend the royalists’ ball than any invitation could be.

It was not until he had made his way to the mansion which was to host the ball that he ran into trouble.

“You,” someone said to his right, moments before a rough hand closed around his arm. “Who are you, and where do you think you’re going?”

Corentin turned, raising an eyebrow in consternation as he found himself face to face with a man of broad stature and the rough features one might have expected of a brigand, although this man wore the emblem of the Sacred Heart on his coat.

“You might not have heard,” Corentin said icily, “but there’s a ball tonight.”

“What’s your name?” the man demanded without releasing his arm.

Corentin drew himself up straight, although it made little difference, for the man towered above him. “My name is none of your concern,” he said. “But if you insist—I am a cousin of the Chevalier de Vissard, whom I’m to meet at this ball, for I have only recently come from England. Now if you will be so good as to give me your name, so that I can express my appreciation of your Breton hospitality to my cousin…”

The man snorted and made no other reply, although rather than releasing him, his hand tightened around Corentin’s arm.

Despite a protesting sound expressing his shock at the appalling treatment, Corentin found himself pulled along—into a house on the other side of the square, he noted with relief, which was at least not far from where he needed to be.

“He, Abbé Gudin,” the man said darkly when Corentin found himself thrust into a drawing room. “Deal with this one, will you? Claims he’s a cousin of Rifoel. Don’t you know his family?”

“Passing well,” the abbé said, now focusing his gaze on Corentin.

Corentin had heard of the abbé—superstitious nonsense spread by the local peasants, or so he had thought, but now that he was face to face with the man, he had to suppress a shudder. Gudin was pale, his eyes dark, burning with an unholy fire, so that Corentin, who believed in neither God nor devil, found himself suddenly reassessing his beliefs, for here stood a man who certainly could raise the dead with the sheer force of his penetrating gaze.

Fortunately, this was not the first time Corentin found himself facing such a disarming opponent—Fouché possessed much of the same quality, and Corentin had spent many hours quailing beneath that gaze.

And yet, as with Fouché, there was a sudden consideration that tempered the suspicion. Corentin knew well the sensation of a glance sliding down his body, then returning to his face, and he felt a certain vindication arise, for the hours spent on winding his tresses around paper to create the effect of the golden corkscrew ringlets now framing his face was a weapon, it seemed, that never failed to have an effect on certain members of the clergy.

Corentin hastily straightened himself, allowing his eyes to widen and his lips to tremble a little, all to give the impression of false bravado as he took a step forward. “Forgive me, Abbé, for this rude intrusion—I fear my guide here is rather lacking in manners, although I shall not let it spoil my impression of the Marquis’ efforts—my cousin has spoken much of him in his letters, and your name, of course, is not at all unknown to me, even after my years of exile.”

“You are a cousin of the Chevalier de Vissard?” the abbé asked, his gaze still considering—and loathe to leave Corentin’s face, he noted.

“Yes, Abbé,” he said proudly. “Come, at last, to join my sword to your cause.”

A small smile found its way to Gudin’s bloodless lips.

“The Chevalier does indeed have family still in exile,” Gudin said slowly. “And I believe I heard him mention that his brothers would return to France to take up arms soon enough. I do not recall mention of a cousin...”

“Oh,” Corentin said, allowing just a tinge of worry to show before he drew himself up once again, his smile a little forced now. “I assume he must be very busy. But my mother assured me that our cousin would not fail to remember me—and while it’s true that I haven’t seen much battle yet, I assure you that I intend to prove just as valuable to my cousin as any of his brothers. Is it not true that these Breton peasants need leaders? Give me the rank of a colonel, Father, and I assure you that my sword shall cut through those Blues as if through butter, until the king has returned and the Church restored to all her rightful possessions.”

Corentin had added genuine fervor to his final words. Now, as he stood before Gudin, slightly out of breath, heated by passion, he could see that the display had achieved the intended effect—some of the abbé’s sternness had softened, the suspicious eyes had warmed, and the narrow lips had relaxed at this act of youthful grandiosity.

In either case, his ruse worked well enough, for he was neither dragged back outside, nor did the abbé send for the chevalier. It seemed that all the town of Saint-James was busy preparing for the ball, and with the several thousands of Chouans who had made their camp in the field outside the town, it was barely possible to make one’s way through the streets of the town due to the size of the crowds. The chevalier was not to be found—or perhaps the messenger boy the abbé sent out had not cared to look further than the house where the chevalier was billeted.

Those news were a relief to Corentin, who was certain that his ruse would not withstand a questioning by the chevalier. And yet, all he had wanted was to make his way into Saint-James, in which he had succeeded.

The abbé had used the time they waited for the messenger to return to question him—subtly, but as someone trained by Fouché in these arts, it posed no great difficulty to Corentin, who knew, after all, enough about the leaders of the royalists to spin a convincing story, using his youth and golden curls to distract Gudin from his suspicions with great success.

By the time another messenger appeared to demand the abbé come and sort some sort of difficulty that had arisen in the Chouan camp, the Gudin’s hand had come to rest on Corentin’s thigh, where it might not have stayed for long, if it had not been for the timely interruption.

“I pray you will forgive me, my son,” Gudin said with true regret. “Please feel free to make yourself at home here; once this small trouble is sorted, I shall return, and perhaps by then someone will have found your cousin.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” Corentin said. “I know that your counsel must be much needed.”

He gave the abbé a gracious smile and pressed his hand with fervor, before leaning forward a little. “And if you are to run into my cousin, perhaps you might speak in favor of giving me a command—I am most eager to prove myself on the field of battle!”

Gudin’s lips twitched, but even so he released Corentin’s hand only slowly. No matter what Gudin thought of him, Corentin did not doubt that the man was convinced that he was who he claimed to be—a foppish, inexperienced youth, but one firmly on the side of the royalists.

He set to work as soon as Gudin had left. As a token of the abbé’s trust in him, he took a seal from his drawer that showed the Sacred Heart. Hastily, he wrote a missive that introduced him as the chevalier’s cousin and forged Gudin’s signature, copied from one of the letters on his desk. In case he should run into the chevalier first, he then forged a second letter introducing himself as a trusted friend of Gudin, who needed access to the Gars’s quarters in his name to deliver a message.

That done, he set to escaping from the abbé’s office without being noted, which was easier than he had thought, for the window of Gudin’s office faced a garden, and there were no guards in sight. The window was locked, but it only took a moment to open it. Outside, there was still no one to be seen—but just as Corentin thrust his head outside, he could hear steps outside the door.

Hastily, he closed the window and managed to step away from it just in time before the door opened and Gudin reappeared.

“Good news, my young friend,” he said, his smile much warmer this time. “I ran into the chevalier outside, and while he has been summoned by the Gars and regrets that he couldn’t immediately come to meet you, he reassured me that he has been awaiting your arrival ever since his mother sent him a note that you left England. Although, he says, he expected you to arrive in the company of your brother, and not before another week or two had passed.”

“How could I miss this gathering?” Corentin said fervently. “What better opportunity to swear my sword to the marquis? No, my brother and I decided that I should go ahead; one can travel faster than two, and it seemed more likely to us that no one would suspect us if we took different routes.”

“The Marquis will be grateful.” Gudin’s eyes lingered on Corentin’s face. They had lost much of their sharpness—distracted, just as Corentin had planned, by the care he had put into his outfit. “Your cousin bids you to join the ball tonight and has tasked me with making you feel welcome. I’m afraid that I’m still needed, though—will you accompany me? I’ll lead you to the house where the ball is to be given.”

“Gladly,” Corentin said, giving Gudin a winsome smile while wondering whether he had indeed been so lucky as to choose a name whose bearer had just embarked on his return to France.

Then he shrugged. He had made it into Saint-James, as he had hoped, and gained access to the house where the ball was to be held. Once he had observed the proceedings there and made certain that Marie had come to no harm, he would find a way to make an escape—either using the false glove or one of the letters. Failing that, there was always disguise—fortunately there were goatskins aplenty, ripe for the taking.

***

The ball had gone well—better than Corentin had expected, in fact, for the chevalier had been so thoroughly distracted by the display of Marie and the Gars that he had not bothered to come and find his cousin.

Corentin meanwhile had found his way behind the heavy velvet curtains in an anteroom, hoping that here, he might overhear some of the plans of the leaders of the Vendée. He had been moderately successful, for the Gars had discussed the next movement of his forces with du Guenic, yet then Marie had entered the room, and all talk of politics ceased.

Corentin was not entirely surprised to hear Marie talk of love to Montauran, in a way that seemed to prove that she had abandoned her mission and settled on having the Marquis’ hand in marriage instead. Still, being forced to listen to that conversation was infuriating.

He contemplated the somewhat frayed curtain that hid him from the chamber. Montauran had spared no effort for his ball—yet at the same time, it was obvious that this was Saint-James, not Fougères, and for all that Marie was enchanted by Montauran’s manners, this was the man who had cast her aside and murdered men he had given his word of honor to protect.

No—Marie’s feelings did not matter; Montauran had to be dealt with. Which Corentin would... as soon as he found a way out of this damned chamber.

Dust tickled his nose. The music from the ballroom could be dimly heard through the wall. He dared not show his head now, but he had taken note of the window on the other side of the chamber when he had entered. It did not face the street—if he was lucky, perhaps he might slip out that way. With all of Fougères distracted, the Chouans drunk on cider and their leaders drunk on champagne and the mystery of Marie, he might succeed in making his way to the Gars’ quarters and slipping in through another window there.

And then...

Corentin felt for the dagger in his shirt. The weapon was still there, and so was the golden pocket watch that concealed the poison.

He was as prepared as he could be—and it seemed that chance was once more on his side, for now, at last, Marie and Montauran left.

Now was the time. His heart racing in his chest, Corentin listened to the sound of their steps. Any moment now...

There was the sound of the door. He exhaled and counted to ten for good measure. Then, carefully, he peered out from behind the curtains—and found himself at the same moment caught in a grip as merciless as that of a vise.

“Aha!” a familiar voice said in triumph. “As soon as I heard about this new arrival I thought of you.”

It was the voice of Madame du Gua, who was now peering down at him from haughty eyes, her cheeks flushed with cruel delight. A heartbeat later, a dagger rested against his side before he had even had a chance to reach for his.

“She came to betray you. It’s as I thought all along!” she declared as she forced Corentin out from his hiding place and back into the ballroom, where conversation immediately fell silent.

“What! Corentin!” Marie cried, her face flushing with anger as she clasped Montauran’s hand. “See, it’s as I told you! That government spy dogs my every step, as if I were a prisoner and he my jailer.”

“Is that so, mademoiselle?” Madame du Gua said coldly. “Then I’m certain you won’t have any objections if we deal with this spy here and now?”

Marie raised her head, eyes glittering as she faced Madame du Gua with such fortitude that Corentin could not help but feel admiration once more. What a pair they might have made—who was to say what heights they might have reached together? Heights, he was certain, that even the marquis would not be able to climb, for his sort—though no doubt very dangerous on the field of battle—without fail found their end on some blood-stained rock sooner rather than later.

“No objections at all, Madame,” Marie said. “Why, the marquis knows how much this man has been tormenting me. You would do me a great favor indeed to remove this spy.”

Corentin would have admired her act, had he been certain that it was an act. As it stood, it appeared that Marie was close to reaching her goal, which had to be the hand of the Marquis in marriage, and Corentin stood in the way of her ambitions.

“You wound me,” he said, giving Marie a pained look. “As does the company you keep. Didn’t this man murder the very men he had sworn on his honor would be safe from harm? How can you be certain of his words now?”

His words had found their aim, for Montauran paled, his mouth a thin line in a face that transformed into a grimace of hate for a heartbeat before it smoothed again with obvious effort.

“For those words alone you will die.”

Corentin laughed. “If you truly are the man of honor you claim to be, you’ll duel me.”

The mere suggestion was ridiculous—Corentin had some experience with a sword, but he was a spy, not a soldier, whereas Montauran had led the Whites into countless skirmishes now, and his prowess with the sword was well known. Furthermore, Corentin was disadvantaged not only by his experience, but also by his build. His head came up no higher than Montauran’s shoulder, and his arms lacked the reach of Montauran’s—a fatal disadvantage in a duel to the death.

Nevertheless, rather than to be shot here like a dog, he would gain time if Montauran would agree to the duel—time that might, perhaps, be used to find some other means of escape.

“Ah, but I’m not facing an honorable opponent myself.” Montauran’s lips curled. “You are no soldier. You’re a police spy, sent by the government to watch Mademoiselle de Verneuil. You don’t deserve an honorable death.”

“Let’s make an end of this. Let me shoot the spy!” a man shouted. A wave of laughter followed his words, and Corentin swallowed at the distinctive sound of a pistol being readied.

“Let’s not waste this opportunity to give some entertainment to our Breton friends outside,” another said. “Marquis, would you allow me the honor of killing the spy for you? I would quite enjoy burying my saber in the little _mouchecadin_ , and you cannot deny that I have reason to demand that satisfaction. Has he not stolen the good name of my family for his ploy?”

Corentin raised his own head haughtily as he met the eyes of the man who had to be the Chevalier de Vissard, called Rifoel in the Vendée. Perhaps it had been foolhardy to steal the name of a man who he knew would attend the ball—and yet, how else would he have gained access to Saint-James?

No, had it not been for Madame du Gua, he would have easily made his way back out of the house.

But now was not the time for recriminations. Corentin knew less about the chevalier’s skill with the saber—even so, the man was a soldier and one of the leaders of the Vendée, and—though slender as Corentin himself—of a height that would once again give him an important advantage.

In a duel with swords, Corentin had no doubt at all that he would lose within minutes—or perhaps, if the chevalier wanted to draw it out, he would last as long as it amused the man.

Pistols, on the other hand—Corentin was a good shot, and his superior reach would be no advantage to the chevalier. With pistols, Corentin was certain of an equal chance to win. But would he agree to that?

“If there’s a man of honor here who’ll lend me his pistol,” Corentin said, “I’ll gladly give you satisfaction.”

Rifoel only laughed. He could not be more than five or six years older than Corentin himself, and his hair had been styled as carefully as Corentin’s, his face framed by chestnut curls and his mouth wide and generous, although there was now a violent twist to it as he gave Corentin a derisive glance.

Had they been alone, Corentin did not doubt that he might have managed to escape this trap via the Chevalier’s bedroom, for he had not failed to note the way the chevalier’s eyes had lingered on the tight cut of his doeskin trousers.

“As it was you who challenged me, it’s my right to choose the weapon,” Rifoel said with a cruel smile. “I choose swords.”

Corentin smiled weakly. It had been worth a try, although it had to be indeed apparent to everyone gathered in the ballroom that Corentin was vastly outmatched by most soldiers here.

Nevertheless, he was still alive. That was victory enough for now.


	2. Chapter 2

Corentin had hoped against hope that Montauran would want to make a spectacle of it--perhaps even save it for the coming day. Instead, less than half an hour passed before he found himself outside, where someone had hastily cleared a spot in the field where the Bretons had made their camp. Surrounded by a thousand onlookers, Corentin tried to exude confidence as he stood facing Rifoel with a borrowed blade in his hand.

It was not a bad weapon, as far as he could judge these things. Still, to fight for sport with a friend every now and then was one thing--to face a battle-hardened soldier hungry to bury his sword in his chest was quite another.

Under the guise of acquainting himself with his blade, Corentin studied the crowd surrounding them. Many of the Chouans were already drunk on cider, cheering now in obvious approval of the bloody entertainment that awaited them, a few of them yelling what Corentin took to be obscene encouragements to Rifoel.

But despite the drink, there were too many of them out here to make his escape. There had to be at least a thousand men. Even if he were to manage to kill Rifoel by an unprecedented stroke of luck, would not these men immediately converge upon him to tear him limb from limb in their rage?

Worriedly, Corentin scanned the faces of the men closest to him, all wrapped in goatskins and holding enormous jugs of cider.

There was one man who gave him pause—could it be…?

But then the crowd surged forward when Rifoel entered the circle, and he lost sight of the man who had aroused his attention. The face had been familiar—but he had only caught a glimpse, and perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him.

In any case, he needed to focus his attention on his opponent if he wanted to leave this field alive. Not that there was much of a chance of that. Longingly, he thought of the poison hidden in one of his pocket watches, but with so many eyes on him, there was no opportunity to see if he could find a way to apply it to his blade. Either way, it was meant to be ingested; he was not certain if a nick by a poisoned blade would kill.

Maybe, with the way Rifoel had looked at him, he could plead for mercy when it became clear that Rifoel had the advantage. The chevalier struck him as a man who would enjoy taking him as a spoils of war to his bedroom…

“Ready yourself,” an officer said.

Corentin raised his blade and faced his opponent, who smiled coldly.

“Oh, I’m going to enjoy this,” Rifoel said. Then he lunged forward.

Corentin parried. Carte. Tierce. Carte.

This was not so different to the bouts he had had with friends, and while the weapon of choice of the young men of his acquaintance was the cane, it was not so dissimilar a weapon.

Yet unlike a cane, unlike blunt practice swords, Rifoel’s saber was sharp. It glinted in the light of the fires that lit the field and gave a demonic cast to Rifoel’s face.

It was obvious even to Corentin that Rifoel was taking it easy on him, yet after mere minutes, Corentin found himself breathless. Where Rifoel's attacks were playful, it took all of Corentin’s strength to parry—and Rifoel gave him no time to recover between attacks, a thrust of low carte before he lunged, retreated, lunged again—and when Corentin parried, followed with a thrust in seconde .

“I see you’re no longer talking, monsieur,” Rifoel said. “Why, am I exhausting you already? I haven’t even truly begun.”

Corentin gritted his teeth, too distracted by the next attack to think of a reply. As he fell back another step, he dared a glance at the crowd behind him—but all he saw was a wall of men clad in goatskins, cheering and jeering. Whatever he had thought to see before must have been wrong. There was no one in this crowd who would come to his help. No—not even Marie.

“I’ll admit,” Corentin said when Rifoel drew back for a moment, “that you fence with admirable form.”

“Ah, but flattery won’t help you now,” Rifoel said, laughing. Nevertheless, there was something in the way he tossed his chestnut curls that made Corentin think that flattery might be the way to success after all—or at least the way to Rifoel’s bedroom after a sound defeat.

It would be an unpleasant night, he had no illusions about that—but what was one night when it meant he would stay alive? Perhaps afterward, Rifoel might even consider holding him to ransom. And although he rather doubted that Hulot would pay, it would gain him precious time. While Corentin knew very well that his chances with the saber stood very badly, he would nevertheless bet all of his possessions on the fact that he would find a way of escape, were he held prisoner for more than a night.

“ _This_ is where I begin.” With a pleased exhalation, Rifoel lunged again—this time so quickly that it was impossible for Corentin to bring up his saber in time to parry.

He could feel the pressure of the steel against his chest—and then something gave, and Rifoel retreated a step, still smiling.

There was no pain. Confused, Corentin looked down—only to find that Rifoel’s saber had skilfully cut a button from his chest.

He raised his eyes just in time to see Rifoel advancing again. This time, the man was laughing as his saber flashed. A moment later, another button was gone.

Corentin clenched his teeth as the Bretons surrounding them started roared with delight. Rifoel was so quick with the saber that it seemed impossible to parry the attacks—even now, when he knew what to expect.

Another feint, another lunge in carte—and though this time Corentin managed to turn the blade in time to deflect Rifoel’s weapon with a ringing sound, the man had nevertheless succeeded, for a moment later, another button fell to the ground, laughter echoing around the circle when Corentin’s coat fell open.

Rifoel gave him no break. Another attack slashed right through the side of his coat, which now hung uselessly off his frame.

“A moment if you will, monsieur,” Corentin said, drawing himself up and retreating a step. “Though I will say that my tailor will be very wroth with you. It took a long time to find this exact shade of blue.”

“A pretty color,” Rifoel agreed, his saber lowered for a moment as he watched, still smiling, as Corentin pulled off the fine coat and flung it carelessly to the ground. “Chosen, no doubt, to match the color of your eyes?”

“Indeed,” Corentin said, pleased despite himself, for it had taken two weeks of continued visits to his tailor until the man had at last produced a wool dyed in a shade that met his favor. “Though I will admit that it is very chivalric of you to refrain from staining it crimson.”

“A chivalry perhaps undeserved by a spy who thought to use my family’s name.”

Corentin found himself smiling, for such verbal sparring was far safer ground—and one on which he was certain he had the advantage.

“Perhaps, monsieur,” he said. “Although you’ll allow me to say that I am grateful for it nevertheless. Crimson is not very becoming for a man of my complexion, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ah,” Rifoel said with another slow smile, his eyes tracing up and down Corentin’s body. “I’m not certain I can agree with you there. Perhaps I’ll have to see it to come to a conclusive opinion.”

Corentin, who knew that look very well, found himself more hopeful than before that this duel might be brought to his hoped-for ending. Still, there was no guarantee—Rifoel might yet decide that he did not have the time to spare to indulge himself with a hostage…

“My tailor would hope that you could find it in you to show mercy to his creation.” Corentin laughed as he spoke, tossing his carefully curled golden locks back over his shoulder, all the while aware of how Rifoel’s eyes followed his movements thoughtfully.

Rifoel raised his saber once more. “I fear you won’t find me much inclined to mercy.”

Slowly, Corentin raised his own blade, poised so that Rifoel had a good view of his profile and the gracefully arched calves now on view, clad in the soft, tight doeskin breeches that left little to the imagination.

“You don’t agree with my choice of tailor?” Corentin asked, just before Rifoel attacked again.

As before, his blade was too quick to parry. Even as he brought up his own saber, Corentin knew that he was a heartbeat too late. Once more the tip of Rifoel’s blade touched his chest—and once more there was none of the pain Corentin had braced himself for.

Instead, a moment later, another button dropped to the floor.

As the Chouans cheered wildly again, their rough jests unmistakable even though Corentin did not speak the Breton language, he felt hope well up inside him, even though his disadvantage was more obvious than ever. Rifoel was merely playing with him, yes—but while it meant that he could kill Corentin at any moment, the fact that he had not yet done so was surely a reason for hope, however meager it might be.

Moments later, Rifoel came at him again, and Corentin braced himself for another of the quick turns of Rifoel’s wrist that managed to slice off a button before he had even consciously noted the movement of the blade.

Instead, this time, Rifoel’s saber rang out against his—and a moment later, Corentin found himself disarmed, his weapon clattering to the ground as Rifoel grabbed hold of his arm and easily twisted it behind his back, holding him securely with his blade resting against his throat.

“No, monsieur spy, I don’t think I like these colors on you.”

Corentin struggled for breath, feeling the sharp blade poised to cut his throat—and then, just as suddenly, it was lifted, slicing downward instead, and he found himself pushed forward as Rifoel released his grasp on him.

His waistcoat hung open now, all the buttons sliced off by Rifoel’s blade. Corentin gave his waistcoat a mournful look as he drew it off. He had been rather fond of the striped silk.

“I will have to bow to your taste then, monsieur, as you are my host this evening, and it wouldn’t do to insult your eyes when my tailor is not to your liking.”

He flung the waistcoat away, watching sadly as one of the Chouans immediately came forward to grab hold of it, returning to his friends with the garment in his hand like a captured flag.

All the clothes that remained to him now were his silken cravat, the yellow doeskin breeches, and his linen shirt. It was bleached a pristine white, lines of ruffles on his chest, starched and immaculate even after the fourteen miles he had ridden on his Arab.

“Will you desire me to take off my shirt as well?” Corentin allowed his eyes to meet those of Rifoel for only a moment, showing the hint of uncertainty that was often the best lure for men of the chevalier’s disposition. “Surely this linen cannot meet with disapproval?”

“It does seem finely cut,” Rifoel said, laughing again as he raised his blade. “But I think I desire a closer look at that collar, monsieur—I think your tailor made a mistake there. You can hardly look out from behind it.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Chevalier, but I fear that it’s rather your skill than the size of my collar that has me at such a disadvantage.”

This time, Corentin was prepared for the lunge that was certain to come, the twist of the sharp blade that would, perhaps, slice through where the shirt was tied at the throat—or indeed, perhaps through his cravat first. He would be sad to see it destroyed, for he had not brought a change of clothes with him, yet given how things stood, he could hardly deny the chevalier a glimpse of his bare throat.

Instead, Rifoel toyed with him again for long minutes, as he had at the start of the duel. Lunge followed lunge, feint followed feint, Corentin parrying as best he could—all the while aware that Rifoel intentionally slowed his attacks so that Corentin could manage to defend himself, if only barely.

By the time a few minutes had passed, Corentin was breathing heavily once more, their audience shouting wild suggestions.

Then Rifoel came forward again, steel ringing as he drove Corentin back with blow after blow.

This was it—Rifoel’s final attack. Corentin was certain of it. Either he would find a very quick death now, or Rifoel would decide that he had not yet tired of toying with him…

Rifoel struck out again, so fast that it was impossible to raise his own saber in time. Corentin panted as he tried to twist out of reach—and then Rifoel skillfully turned, grabbing hold of Corentin’s arm that held the saber, and twisted until Corentin had to let go of it with a pained cry or risk Rifoel breaking his wrist.

A heartbeat later, he found himself on the cold ground. Rifoel stood triumphantly above him—and sharp steel was resting against Corentin’s throat.

“It seems to me you have won our disagreement about my choice of garments,” Corentin murmured, gasping for breath as he looked up at his opponent. “Will you take my shirt after all? Only it gets very cold out here at night, and I won’t know how to keep warm without it…”

Rifoel’s saber pressed down against his throat, so that Corentin did not dare to swallow.

Then, very slowly, it dragged downward. A flick of Rifoel’s wrist cut through the cravat. Corentin could only hold still for it, his chest still heaving from exertion as the sharp blade continued on its path.

Very slowly, it cut open the front of his shirt. Another flick of the blade parted the shirt so that it fell to the side, leaving his bare chest exposed.

Then the tip of the blade came to rest on his breast once more, with enough pressure that he dared not breathe in too deeply, for fear that it would pierce the skin over his pounding heart.

Dimly, he heard the noise of the crowd surrounding them, the jeers and yells—but he could not look away from Rifoel’s eyes. All of his hope now rested on Rifoel’s interest in him. Corentin did not think he had been wrong—not when Rifoel had taken so much delight in stripping him. Still, if his saber came down now, Corentin’s scheming would have been in vain…

Instead, after an agonizing eternity during which Corentin did not dare to not move, the blade moved downward once more, lingering teasingly at the flap of his breeches. Then, with a decisive flick, a first button rolled away, and Rifoel laughed, the sound low and mocking.

“I’m afraid your breeches offend me as well, monsieur spy.”

Corentin allowed his cheeks to color as he raised his eyes to Rifoel. “Then I’m afraid I have no choice but to surrender them to you as well. As well as anything else you might demand. You have won, Chevalier. I surrender.”

Rifoel’s eyes swept up and down his half-bared body once more as the man hesitated. Then, at last, the saber lifted, and Corentin found himself unceremoniously pulled to his feet and thrust into the arms of a soldier.

“Bind him and deliver him to my quarters while I consider what to do with him,” Rifoel said. His declaration caused half the crowd to erupt into no doubt lewd suggestions while the other half made sounds of disappointment, for they had been denied their bloody entertainment.

Dazed with relief, Corentin did not protest as his hands were tied. Rifoel stepped closer to give him a thoughtful look, then reached out to wrap his hands in Corentin’s locks and harshly yank his head back.

“Yes, you owe me an hour or two of entertainment,” Rifoel murmured. “Perhaps, after I’m done, I’ll send him back out here to entertain you. Would that please you?”

This time, the crowd cheered so loudly that it became apparent that even the formerly disappointed Bretons had been won over by the chevalier’s generosity.

There was no hope for Corentin then that a ransom might be arranged—and the Chouans hoping for for death might still have their wish. A night of discomfort would not be too high a price to pay for his life, but he rather doubted that he would last for very long, given that the Chouans camped out here had to number in the thousands.

“I see your fate is decided then.” Rifoel released Corentin’s hair to run a finger down his chest. “You did ask me to be merciful, though you might change your opinion about that soon enough. But you aren’t the sort of man for an honorable death on the field of battle, spy, and so you shall be put to the sort of use that suits you best.”

“Wait,” a voice suddenly rang out nearby, audible even through the clamor of the Chouans surrounding them. “Release my spy. If you truly are an honorable man, you’ll give me the satisfaction of a duel in his stead—unless you fear to cross blades with a soldier instead of an untried boy.”

Corentin knew that voice well—it was the voice of commander Hulot, as impossible as it seemed that he should be here, right in the midst of the royalists’ camp at Saint-James.

When the crowd drew back, making way for Hulot to come forward, Corentin saw that he had not been mistaken earlier, as impossible as it had seemed then.

The commander’s mustache and queue was gone, and with it much of his usual sternness. A veteran of only thirty-three years, Hulot now looked his age for the first time that Corentin had known him—although his current disguise did much to distract from the shocking sight of his smooth face.

Commander Hulot was dressed as a Chouan, wearing a goatskin and worn, hobnailed boots, his hair and face cleverly disguised by a layer of dust and dirt. He looked indeed no different than any of the men surrounding them—and if he had brought a similarly disguised company of men with him from Fougères, Corentin could not tell them from the crowd surrounding them.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rifoel demanded. “Who are you to challenge me?”

“I am a man of honor,” Hulot said, and if he had still been in possession of his valiant mustache, Corentin had no doubt that it would be quivering with consternation now. “I might abhor the business of spies—but just the same, I abhor a man who would stoop so low as to dishonor a man who fought bravely and honestly, even though he found himself severely outmatched. It is one thing to fight a boy like him who has never seen a battlefield and spends more time at the opera than the fencing school. But if you truly are a man of honor as you claim, you will allow me to fight in his stead.”

Corentin could not quite hold back a small smile, for he knew that Hulot would not have spoken so had he known that Corentin had pondered whether it was possible to poison his blade.

Regardless, it came as a great surprise to him that Hulot had come to his rescue at all—he had been half certain that it would give Hulot some satisfaction to see him fall in what he would no doubt call an honorable death on the field of battle.

But then, perhaps to save him from such a fate would mean that Hulot could continue to think of him as no more than a spy he could look down upon.

In either case, Corentin could not help the sudden gratefulness that welled up in him. Whatever Hulot might think of him, there had been no need to step forward and reveal himself in order to save Corentin. Indeed, perhaps after these events—if either of them survived the marquis’ ball—he would need to reevaluate the man. It had to have taken him a great deal of cunning and skillful maneuvering in a country that was so advantageous to the cause of the Chouans to make it to Saint-James without arousing suspicion.

Little by little, Corentin’s racing heart calmed enough that he was able to finally push himself back up to his feet, now that Rifoel had taken his saber away from his breast. For all that Corentin had thought that he had suitably intrigued the chevalier to hold his attention all through the night, Corentin seemed all but forgotten as Rifoel was facing Commander Hulot.

“Come now,” Rifoel said slyly. “If you are a man of honor, you will have a name. Otherwise, I fear I cannot accept your challenge.”

It was obvious that Rifoel was aware of Hulot’s identity—how, Corentin could not say, although it was certainly possible that these two might have met before on the battlefield that was the Vendée.

Now, as Corentin watched, Hulot drew himself up straight. Even in the ridiculous costume of his goatskin, he exuded such authority that the crowd around them began to mumble uneasily.

“You know very well who I am: Commander Hulot, in command of the forces of this department. As such, the spy is my responsibility. Now will you dare to face the sword of an old soldier?”

He grimaced at Rifoel—an expression, Corentin had noted, that passed for a smile on his battle-worn face.

For all that Corentin had faced off against Hulot for several days now, he had never until this day fully appreciated the man’s strong build and stamina. His hands might be calloused—but these were the callouses that came from holding a sword and gripping reins. And now that Corentin’s fate was to be decided by the strength and skill of Hulot’s arms, the commander--whom so far he had been able to ignore as yet another soldier, full of that foolish, honorable honesty that would lead to a short life far away from the heights Corentin intended to climb to--suddenly seemed far more palatable.

In any case, Hulot and Rifoel were of a kind, so who better to face each other with the sword than two men who fully believed that that killing each other with a blade was an honorable thing to do?

“If I win, you will release me and the spy,” Hulot demanded, “and let us return unharmed. I well remember what happened to my men at La Vivetière. I demand your word as a man of honor that it will be so.”

Rifoel smiled. “And if I win?”

“Then you will let him go. A dandy like that has no use on the battlefield in either case; he will return to Paris and bother you no more.”

“That is little reward,” Rifoel said.

Hulot laughed hoarsely. “You’ll have the death of the leader of the forces of this department, monsieur. Surely that is more than enough.”

“Indeed, that would please many of my men,” Rifoel said, his smile widening. “Very well. Make space!”

Among excited murmurs that spread through the entire field, the circle of Chouans that had drawn close around them now slowly began to move back, until at last there was once more a circle wide enough for two men to settle a disagreement with the blade.

Mournfully, Corentin eyed the coat of fine wool, certain that he would never find that exact shade of blue again. Even as he watched where it laid half-trodden into the mud, a young, especially daring Chouan darted forward and grabbed hold of it, only to escape before Corentin could think of stopping him.

At least he still had his shirt, although the front had been sliced open so that it hung off his frame now without doing much to shield him from wind or cold.

The clash of steel made him hastily look up, then retreat a few steps, trying to keep an equal distance from the goatskin-clad Chouans and the two men who had just begun their duel.

If Hulot had made it here, then was it not possible that some of his men had likewise infiltrated the crowd? Might that particularly ugly fellow over there not be Beau-Pied; was it not possible that the man in the piebald goatskin who had stolen Corentin’s coat was not in truth one of the youths of Fougères, come to play the Bretons of the countryside a little prank by pretending to be one of their own while following Hulot’s orders?

As much as he would like to believe that, none of the faces around him looked familiar. It would be foolish to trust in a second miracle—although, a small voice at the back of his mind said, it was not that Hulot’s assistance had been truly needed, for the situation had been firmly under control. The chevalier had acted exactly as Corentin had thought he would, after all.

Steel rang out again as two sabers met, and Corentin forgot about what had come to pass earlier. It was now more apparent than ever that Rifoel had merely toyed with him, for in Hulot, at last, he had a worthy opponent, and held nothing back.

It was like watching the fencing masters back in Paris trade lunges and parades—only here, the smallest mistake would lead to death. Had Rifoel wanted, he could have killed Corentin with a stab to his heart right with his very first attack, for even as a mere onlooker, it was hard to tell where the blades went, for they moved so quickly.

Rifoel was elegant. He moved like a dancer at the opera, light and quick on his feet, a certain grace to every deadly thrust.

Against such a man, Corentin would have said that the unfriendly commander would look like a brute, a rough soldier with rough manners and no grace, skilled in the trade of killing as opposed to Rifoel’s art.

Yet to Corentin’s surprise, it was not so. He found himself entranced by Hulot’s movements—there was none of the roughness he would have expected, but a calm, skillful defense and and a measured attack, a boldness in his lunges forward that was based not on foolhardiness but the undeniable strength of his arms.

Corentin thought that the men might spend a few minutes trying each others’ defenses carefully, looking for weaknesses; in truth, that might even be the case, but attack followed attack at such speed and with such force that Corentin found it hard to believe that either held anything back.

It was a merry spectacle indeed, and the surrounding crowd agreed with him, for their noises grew into a roar every time Rifoel pressed the attack. Corentin himself could not fail but be entranced by such a display of skill, especially on the part of Commander Hulot who, it seemed, was a more than worthy opponent to the chevalier.

Nevertheless, it was difficult to forget that Corentin was still a prisoner, robbed of most of his clothes, and standing right now in the center of a damp field at night, surrounding by thousands of hostile Bretons.

Uneasily, he wondered what would happen if Hulot were to lose. Would Rifoel truly keep his word? Such a promise had not helped the men a La Vivetière, after all…

Again steel rang against steel, and the crowd roared when Hulot stumbled and hastily had to retreat several steps.

Corentin drew in a sharp breath when Rifoel followed, light-footed and as quick as lightning, refusing to cede his advantage. Fast as lightning, his saber cut through the air, a vigorous thrust in seconde—and then red blossomed on the dirty shirt Hulot wore beneath his goatskin.

Hulot did not cry out. It was the left shoulder that had taken the blow—which left his sword arm uninjured.

Now, with Rifoel unbalanced for a mere heartbeat, for he had been forced to lunge far forward to slash through Hulot’s defenses, Hulot turned as though he did not even feel the wound, and his blade struck Rifoel’s at such an angle that the man’s saber fell from his grasp. At the same moment, Hulot’s saber was pulled back, then came forward again, and though there was none of the grace of the dancer in Hulot, Corentin could not help but exhale in sheer admiration at the display of strength and skill as Hulot’s saber pierced Rifoel’s chest deeply.

Rifoel’s mouth opened, but no words escaped his lips. Instead, a thin trickle of blood began to run down from his mouth.

He stumbled a few steps backward, dislodging the sword from his breast while doing so. Blood stained his coat as well, a stain of crimson that was rapidly expanding. He raised his hand to it, then stared at his fingers in confusion, as though he refused to believe that the liquid on his fingertips was his own blood.

Coughing weakly, Rifoel fell to his knees. More blood dripped from his mouth.

Hulot lowered his sword and came forward to hold out a hand, disregarding the blood that was still flowing from his own wound.

“I won,” Hulot said, “but I will say that I have rarely met a man with such skill and command of his blade before. Now will you honor your word?”

Rifoel looked up at him, fury and disbelief on his face. His hand clutching at his bloodstained chest, he turned his head to scan the crowd until at last he seemed to find a familiar face, nodding towards it.

His lips parted once more—but if he spoke, Corentin could not make out any words, for the noise of the crowd around them had grown to such a degree that it was impossible to hear one’s own words.

From behind him, Chouans came surging forward, and Corentin found himself abruptly pulled from his shock.

Hastily, he joined Hulot, who was still standing calmly by the side of his vanquished opponent—and there, in the direction Rifoel had gazed, he now found the Marquis de Montauran, staring at him with fury in his eyes.

“Safe passage for me and the spy,” Hulot said calmly, meeting Montauran’s eyes as though they were not surrounded by a large crowd of angry Chouans who would love nothing better than tearing them both limb from limb. “That was what the chevalier promised me, on his honor. I take it that you will be man of honor enough to stand by his word?”

Corentin could see Montauran’s hand clench around his own sword, the knuckles of his fingers turning white. Then, with obvious effort, Montauran relaxed his grasp and turned away from them to survey the surging crowd.

“I heard no such thing,” Montauran said coldly. “In any case, a spy cannot demand mercy—and a man who comes in disguise cannot expect to be treated as a man of honor. As to the rest… I will leave you to Rifoel’s men, who I am certain will honor the result of the duel.”

“God’s thunder!” Hulot exclaimed. “I thought you an honorable man, but you murdered my men in cold blood—men under your protection. And now that you have been given a chance to prove that it was not your doing, you prove yourself no better than those Chouans who killed my friends.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken, commander,” Montauran said. “None of this will reflect badly on my honor, for there will be no one left to speak of this.”

With those words, he turned and made his way out of the crowd, who briefly parted for him—only to immediately close ranks again, so that Corentin and Hulot found themselves facing a wall of goatskin-clad Bretons who had just witnessed the death of their leader at their hands.

Instinctively, Corentin moved closer to Hulot, who after all still held his blade in his hand—though little good it would be against a thousand Chouans.

“If we make it out of here alive, citizen spy,” Hulot said, “I will hold you responsible for all that has come to pass today.”

“If we make it out of here alive, Commandant,” Corentin said with a smile he did not feel, “I will gladly surrender myself to your military discipline—but I fear that is not to be.”

He did not doubt the commander’s prowess with the sword—not after the display he had just been given. Yet even Hulot could not stand for long against a thousand foes. At least he would have the valiant death he seemed so fond of. Corentin, on the other hand, still preferred a death that would come to him in his own bed, half a century in the future, no matter how craven Hulot that might think.

But for once Corentin’s own powers failed him. Faced with such odds, he would not be able to seduce or reason his way out of it—perhaps one Chouan might be convinced to keep him alive for ransom, maybe ten, even twenty—but not a thousand men who had just seen one of the leaders of the Vendée fall to Hulot’s sword.

Corentin eyed one of the men closest to them with a doubtful look. The Chouan was clutching a pistol—Corentin was not a terrible shot. Would he be able to yank the pistol out of the man’s grasp? Perhaps. And then what? One shot before he would have to reload. One shot against a thousand men.

Corentin looked up at Hulot again, in whose eyes he could read that the soldier had come to the same conclusion. But where Corentin had to force himself to fight the terror that was trying to take hold of him, Hulot’s mouth twisted once more into the grimace that was his attempt at a smile. Hulot, it seemed, felt no fear at all—indeed, there seemed a certain elation in his face as he brandished his sword.

“Come now,” he said to the men closest to them, “who of you will try my blade first?”

Three men in goatskins came forward all at once, but if anything, Hulot’s terrifying smile only widened.

Corentin once more eyed the crowd—but there was no opening, no familiar face, not even an abandoned weapon for him to use.

One of the Chouans said something in Breton that made his companions laugh and Hulot tighten his grip on his sword. Then, from out of nowhere, there was a deafening boom.

Ears ringing, Corentin abruptly found himself on the ground.

Slowly, he blinked. There seemed to be a red haze interfering with his vision. He blinked again. When he could finally make out his surroundings again, it seemed as if the world stood upside down.

The field they had fought on was gone. Instead, it looked as if some devil had transported him right onto one of the battlefields of the Vendée.

Slowly Corentin blinked again, trying to make sense of what he saw. The ground was torn open. There was mud everywhere—mud, and blood.

Dead men were littering the ground. Wounded Bretons were groaning. Not far from him, a severed arm laid on the ground, and Corentin stared at it without understanding what it was or how it had come to be there without the body it belonged to, the ringing in his ears so loud that it was difficult to think.

Then he found himself scooped up, staring down at the pools of blood amidst the mud as they rapidly began to move.

His ears were still ringing, but little by little, reality began to intrude once more, and with it what were unmistakably the sounds of a battlefield.

A moment later, he found himself unceremoniously put back down, a hand on his shoulder giving him a firm shake.

“Citizen spy,” Hulot’s voice said.

With effort, Corentin forced himself to look away from the so strangely changed surroundings and meet the eyes of Hulot.

“Can you walk? Good.” Hulot gave him no time for an answer. “There’s no time. We have to run—now, while they are all distracted.”

His head still reeling, Corentin parted his lips to ask what had happened—but then instinct kicked in, and he breathlessly inclined his head.

“Follow me. No matter what, don’t stop,” Hulot commanded, and then they were off.

As they ran, Corentin began to slowly realize that the battlefield they were crossing was indeed no other than the fields of Saint-James—the very same fields where they had dueled mere minutes ago.

Now it was transformed into carnage. There were dying men everywhere. The destruction and the losses of the enemy were as great as if someone had fired a cannon into the crowds from close distance…

The realization hit at the same moment as the infernal ringing in his ears finally began to lessen, and the sounds and stink of the battlefield finally began to fill his senses.

This was no dream at all. Hulot must indeed have been more cunning than Corentin had assumed he was. Hulot would not have come alone. And he would not have walked right into the middle of an enemy camp without knowing that his men were in position.

Had he not observed that on the edge of the field, an English officer had been teaching several Breton soldiers how to handle a cannon?

Perhaps some of them had been men of Fougères under Hulot’s command—or maybe his men had merely waited for the right moment to overwhelm the Englishman and turn the cannon on the crowd.

In either case, the result was utter carnage and confusion—and thus, at last, a chance for them to make their escape right under the eyes of a thousand Chouans.

“Your men,” Corentin said breathlessly. “Where—“

“Save your breath,” Hulot snapped. “They’ll hunt us down. No time to regroup. Pray we find horses, or we’re done for.”

Corentin thought longingly of his little Arab, who was certain to outrace any pursuer. He tried to figure out where they were—in the chaos, everything seemed changed, but he thought that they were too far from the buildings of Saint-James. The town had to be behind the panicked crowd of Bretons who had still not figured out that they were not under attack by all the republican forces of Fougères.

In fact, as he threw back a glance every now and then, it appeared that any effort by Montauran to regain control over his men seemed to follow the assumption that they were under attack by a large continent of Hulot’s forces, rather than by a handful of men in disguise.

Instead of coming after them, the Chouans retreated—the right choice, of course, had there indeed been men with cannons stationed nearby, for the cannonballs would have put a fast end to the Catholic army of Saint-James.

It would not last long. Montauran had been furious—as soon as he realized that there was no opposing army, he would send his men after them. How long that would be Corentin could not say, but he had to agree with Hulot. They had no time to waste.

“Commander,” he gasped, his sides aching, for it was difficult to keep up with the longer strides of Hulot. “They’re retreating. If you want a horse—“

“Be quiet,” Hulot said. “For once, be useful and follow my commands, or I’ll abandoned you right here, Fouché be damned.”

Corentin closed his mouth in consternation, for he had not intended to argue with Hulot, but merely to point out a helpful observation.

A moment later he saw, somewhat mollified, that Hulot must have come to the same realization as him at the same time, for Hulot had changed their course slightly—leading them straight towards a little encampment that looked like the cart and carriages that transported the camp followers and their wares and belongings.

Would they have gone to the ball as well? Perhaps—but surely no one would abandon carts and horses without a guard.

There was a horse, he could now see—part of its head visible above a hedge of brambles.

Hulot swerved into the direction of the hedge, turning to Corentin once to raise his finger to his lips. Corentin nodded to show that he had understood, wishing that he had possessed the good sense to grab an abandoned gun on their flight.

Had Hulot brought a gun? Surely he would have another weapon hidden beneath the goatskin, but Corentin did not think it advisable to ask for it.

In any case, Hulot paid no heed to him as they slowed, focused almost entirely on the hedge.

Corentin could not see any sign of a guard, but Hulot halted a moment later for no reason that Corentin could see. Hulot listened intently. There was no sound but that of some small animal moving in the bushes.

Hulot raised his hands to his mouth. The familiar owl-called resounded.

A moment later, the head of a boy popped up from beneath one of the carts. Had he taken shelter there, alerted by the screams and shouts and the sound of fighting coming from Saint-James?

Hulot’s hand closed roughly around Corentin’s wrist, who found himself yanked out into the small camp by Hulot, who gave no explanation for his actions but turned to address the boy of perhaps seven or eight years, his cheeks smudged with dirt and his eyes narrow with suspicion.

“What are you still doing here, fool?” Hulot said roughly. “Haven’t you heard that Saint-James is under attack? It’s the Blues! They’ve killed the Gars. They’ll be here in a minute.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he instinctively peered towards the town, from which screams and shouts could still be heard.

“Who’s that?” The boy then demanded, nodding at Corentin. “That’s not one of ours.”

“It’s one of them, fool,” Hulot snapped. “I’ll ransom him, and I won’t share with Marche-à-Terre, and you’ll shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

Hulot reached out for the reins of the horse—a nag with a sunken back and hollow eyes, its coat the color of mud.

Corentin once more thought longingly of his Arab with the deep chest and strong legs that could run for hours.

“What are you doing? That’s Biquet’s horse. He’s going to kill you,” the boy said.

Hulot laughed grimly. “He’s dead, boy. Didn’t you hear? The Blues brought cannons. And if you want to live, you better run.”

Hulot reached into his pocket, then drew out a coin—gold, Corentin thought, for it glittered in the sunlight as he threw it at the boy. The boy snatched it out of the air with surprising speed, staring at it with wide eyes as if he’d never seen a Louis d’or before—and then he turned and was gone as abruptly as he’d appeared.

Hulot shoved the reins of the nag at Corentin, then yanked a garment from a clothes line someone had hung between wagons. The rags on it looked as if they hadn’t seen soap in years.

Corentin grimaced as a moment later, the rags were thrown into his face.

“Put it on,” Hulot commanded, then vaulted onto the horse’s back and held out a hand for Corentin.

Corentin shook the garment out, grimacing in distaste—then frowned.

“It’s a skirt,” he said.

“Put it on now or stay here and let the Whites screw you,” Hulot said grimly. “It’s your choice, citizen of hell.”

Behind them, Corentin could now hear shouts that sounded decidedly more martial—had someone finally figured out that Saint-James was not, in fact, under attack, and was bringing the panicked Chouans under his control once more?

Corentin hesitated a heartbeat, then bit back a curse as he pulled on the skirt. A moment later, Hulot pulled him up onto the horse, which snorted in protest, its ears low against the head in protest at the increased burden.

Without waiting for Corentin to arrange himself into a more comfortable position, Hulot forced the poor beast around—and then they were off, racing down a path that led them straight towards the forest of Blanche-Lande that grew south-west of Saint-James.

“What about your men,” Corentin said breathlessly as they cantered down the narrow path at half the speed of his little Arab. “Are we meeting—“

“If they aren’t dead,” Hulot said furiously, “they will do what we’re doing right now: getting the hell out of there, without time for questions or any further ridiculous rescues. God’s thunder, citizen spy, I should have let you die back there.”

Corentin bit back a just as furious reply, for had he not thought that was exactly what Hulot would do?

“I’m grateful you didn’t,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

“Save your breath,” Hulot muttered. “If we encounter anyone, you’ll be silent, do you understand? Turn around to hide your face against my chest and let me do the talking. With any luck they’ll think that—“

“That I’m some woman you stole in Saint-James.” Corentin was not certain whether he should be affronted or impressed by the soldier’s quick thinking.

It was true that with his torn shirt and tight doeskin breeches, no one would have believed him to be a Breton. Even if he had been dressed in a goatskin like Hulot, he would certainly have given himself away, for he did not speak their language.

Meanwhile the skirt Hulot had stolen hid his breeches and the fashionable Suwaroff boots, and Hulot’s tale would give him a reason to cling to the soldier and hide his face from anyone they might encounter.

“Very well,” he agreed reluctantly. “But where are we going?”

Hulot snorted. “Didn’t I tell you to be silent?”

Corentin clenched his jaw, affronted, for all of his observations had been entirely sensible. He might be no soldier—but as a spy, no matter how Hulot might look down on his craft, he was just as skilled as Hulot at disguises, as long as those did not involve the Breton language.

“Anywhere that’s not Saint-James,” Hulot said a moment later. “They’ll be searching for us, if Montauran still lives. We won’t make it back to Fougères on this horse, not with them pursuing us.”

“We need to find a place to hide until they give up.”

“Indeed,” Hulot acceded. “So unless you know these fields and forests better than a soldier who has been living with their ambushes for a year, shut your mouth, or it will be your chatter that earns us both the bullets we only just escaped.”

Corentin could not argue with that—especially given that Hulot had seemed to know where the boy was hiding when Corentin had not been able to catch a single glimpse of him.

In either case, it would not be long now until Montauran—so he was alive—would have the countryside swarming with Chouans hunting them down like dogs. And given that Corentin had neither map nor weapon, it seemed that for now, all he could do was trust Hulot.


	3. Chapter 3

The horse slowed to a trot as soon as they reached the cover of the forest, and Hulot did not spur it on—perhaps wisely, if they expected the horse to last while bearing two. Fleeing into the forest of Blanche-Lande had led them too far to the west—they would have to circle back to the east somehow and continue south to make it to Fougères.

It had added several miles to their journey. Yet on the other hand, surely Montauran would not expect them to flee west when all of Hulot’s troops were awaiting them south in Fougères.

Corentin wracked his brain but could not come up with any advice more sensible than Hulot’s plan. When it came to warfare in the open country, he would gladly admit that Hulot was the master. Corentin, meanwhile, had in fact not been idle: as soon as he learned of the ball at Saint-James and Marie’s plan, he too had made his inquiries—but those had involved nearby settlements, the allegiances of eminent families of the region, a path for his Arab to take to Saint-James—even a path to take on his return, in case he was discovered and had to flee. But that route had counted on the fact that he had his own horse, which he trusted to outrace most, and perhaps a small group of Chouans in pursuit.

He had not thought that he would find himself fleeing together with Hulot, his clothes cut off his body, Hulot dressed as a Chouan, and both of them sharing a tired old nag he would not have paid a single franc for.

Hulot’s suggestion was sensible, he could not deny that. And yet, perhaps, if they were to come across a traveler or some merchant driving a carriage…

Hulot’s grip on him had slackened somewhat, and when the horse abruptly changed direction to make his way around a gnarled root that crossed the path here, Corentin made a sound of consternation when he nearly slid off.

“If you don’t want to hold on to me,” he said, “you could at least give me a moment to let me straddle the horse. I will remind you that it was your idea to disguise me as a woman—indeed, one could almost think that you orchestrated it just to have me like this.”

“Be silent, citizen spy,” Hulot muttered, but his voice was weaker than before, and though his arm slid back up to wrap around Corentin’s waist, it did not grip as firmly as it had at first.

Corentin turned half around. When he caught a glimpse of the soldier’s pale face, a sudden memory struck—Rifoel’s blade had pierced Hulot’s shoulder. He had seen the blood that had stained the shirt Hulot wore beneath the goatskin. It had fallen from his mind after the shock of the cannonball that had hit the crowd gathered right around them—and then, afterward, Hulot had held up so admirably that he had not wasted a single thought on his wound.

“Your shoulder. How bad is it?” Corentin twisted further in Hulot’s embrace to see if he could push the goatskin away for a look at where the saber had pierced the skin.

“Stop wriggling,” Hulot snapped, although he flinched when Corentin touched his shoulder.

The fabric beneath his fingers was wet, the shirt warm and sticky.

“Stop the horse,” Corentin said.

Hulot ignored him.

“Stop the beast, I said! We need to deal with your wound, or you’ll bleed to death right here. I won’t let Montauran have that satisfaction.”

Hulot laughed hoarsely. “It’s neither the first nor the last time my skin will test the sharpness of my enemy’s blades. Don’t worry about me—worry about what will happen to your skin when we return.”

“If we return,” Corentin said grimly, and in illustration pressed his finger against Hulot’s shoulder.

Hulot grunted. “God’s thunder! Will you stop that. I’m of half a mind to turn the horse around and let Montauran have you.”

“You won’t be any good to me if you’re dead. Halt the horse. Let me dress your wound. Then we continue.”

Hulot gritted his teeth, but a moment later he allowed the horse to slow to a walk. But instead of stopping, as Corentin had asked him to, he suddenly stiffened—then nudged the horse off their path.

A moment later, Corentin could hear it too. Water. Not far away, there was the soft sound of flowing water. It was little more than a rivulet, it turned out, but Hulot led the horse straight into it, then followed its course downstream.

“That will keep them away for a while if they bring dogs,” Hulot said at last.

Corentin gave him a look which he hoped expressed his displeasure, but Hulot only laughed before he at last relented and stopped the horse, allowing Corentin to slip down from the animal’s back before he followed.

“I’m surprised that you are so concerned about my health.”

Hulot’s grace of a smile turned into a grimace of pain when Corentin peeled the goatskin away with less care than he ordinary would have used.

“You saved my life,” Corentin snapped. “And you’re armed, while there are a thousand Chouans behind us. I’d be a fool to desire your death!”

“It takes more than Rifoel to kill me.” This time, there was a dark humor in Hulot’s smile. “And while I can only hope for such a death as that would be, I’d rather not die while failing to save the life of the most annoying spy Fouché could have sent me.”

“You might not like the thought,” Corentin said, “but Rifoel came close.”

Hulot’s shirt was soaked with blood. Corentin pushed at Hulot’s uninjured shoulder until the man reluctantly sat down on a stone by the river, then hastily pulled back the shirt as well, pouring cold water over Hulot’s shoulder to clean the wound.

The blade had pierced deeply, that much was apparent even by the light of moon and stars, but Hulot had not made a single sound.

Almost immediately, more blood welled up—but it was flowing sluggishly. No artery had been pierced; Hulot would not bleed to death.

Corentin gave his ripped shirt a considering look, but then remembered Hulot’s treatment of him and grabbed hold of Hulot’s own shirt to tear a strip of fabric from it. The man still had the goatskin to keep warm, after all, whereas Corentin was already shivering from the cold night air.

Hulot’s lips tightened when Corentin hastily bandaged his shoulder. His face looked wan in the light of the moon, although his eyes were still bright with fierce determination.

Narrowing his eyes at the unaccustomed glint, Corentin raised his hand to press it to Hulot’s brow.

His skin was warm—but could it be the onset of fever?

With a low laugh, Hulot took hold of his hand and pulled it away. “Save your concern for another time—if they catch us, you’ll need it. I’ve known worse. Now come.”

Corentin drew his ragged shirt more tightly around himself as he looked all around them. The forest was dark and quiet, the moon above glinting coldly.

“It’s too dark to go much further,” Corentin said at last. “But we can’t stay here.”

“It will be easier to see the path once we make it out of the forest,” Hulot muttered. “But we will be easier to spot. In these parts, there is no hedge or hut that doesn’t hide a dozen Chouans—and no man who wouldn’t immediately betray us to that damned Marche-à-Terre. I should have shot him when I had the chance.”

“If I had my horse,” Corentin said, “I would be halfway back home already.”

“But you don’t.” There was a grim satisfaction in Hulot’s voice. “Which means that for once, you will have to do as you’re told if you want to live, spy.”

Corentin stared up at the moon again. Nearby, something rustled in the bushes. He shuddered, listening for the distinctive sound of an owl cry.

Only silence followed.

Tired and cold, he wrapped his arms around himself, staring at the horse who stood dozing by the side of the rivulet.

“Lead the way, mon général,” he said tiredly.

It felt like an eternity had passed before Hulot stopped the horse again, but in fact it had only been an hour or two when Corentin checked his pocket watch in the cold light of the stars.

They had waded in the water of the rivulet for a while, following it downstream. When they left it, they followed no path, although Hulot seemed to have a destination in mind, for he never halted the horse but instead kept them going on the springy ground of old needles beneath an endless forest of pines.

The ground was hilly; eventually they entered a valley that little by little began to grow deeper, steep walls rising all around them until they found themselves traveling along the bottom of a gorge. The wind had picked up; with only his torn shirt for protection, Corentin had gradually become fonder of the ill-smelling goatskin he could huddle against.

At last, with walls of stone still surrounding them, Corentin heard the sound of water once more. Not soon after, they reached the end of the gorge, where a small pond gleamed darkly in the moonlight. It was fed from a rivulet that sprang from the stone there.

Without a word, Hulot nudged Corentin, who shivered again as he slid from the nag’s back. A moment later, Hulot joined him.

“Now what?” Corentin asked quietly.

“Hush,” Hulot murmured distractedly. “There should be—ah.”

He’d made his way forward, grabbing Corentin’s wrist so that he had no choice but to come along. They were facing the dark wall of stone in front of them now—only, Corentin realized a moment later when Hulot kept moving forward, there was no stone here at all.

There was an opening in the wall from which the rivulet flowed. An opening large enough for a man…

Hulot tied the horse’s reins to the trunk of a tree, which appeared to have been struck by lightning years ago. Then he entered the cave.

There was no light that Corentin could see, not even that of the sun and the stars. It was a cave—he could hear the echo of their steps. A small one, he thought, but large enough for two men to stand upright in.

“Ah. Here,” Hulot said tiredly and released his arm.

There was a metallic sound, and a moment later, a sudden spark.

When the spark grew into light, Corentin saw that Hulot was crouching on the ground, holding a small tinderbox in his hand.

The cave opened up before Corentin. In the flickering light, he could see that there were strange decorations on the wall—carved symbols and pattern, and again and again a shape that looked like a stylized horn.

He could also see that there was a ground cover of pine straw spread in one corner, together with a stack of firewood.

“Gudin told me about it,” Hulot said. “If we’re lucky, some of my men survived and will find their way here. In any case, we won’t wait longer than until morning. The Chouans won’t come here. Mark those symbols. They don’t trust that their abbé can protect them from the ghosts they believe to haunt these places.”

Corentin turned away from the strange markings. He was so cold and tired that he was only too willing to lie down with ghosts, if that was what it took.

“You didn’t think to leave any spare coats here?” he asked, then gave Hulot a jealous look. “Or a spare goatskin?”

Hulot smiled, his lips twisting. “Perhaps, if you had the sense to dress up in the fashion of a soldier rather than in that of a dandy…”

“My disguise got me further than yours did. Or did you make it into the ballroom?”

Despite his words, Corentin shivered again. He eyed the skirt Hulot had forced him to take along—it would not make much of a blanket, for was made of cheap, thin cotton, already torn in places. Still, it was better than nothing…

Exhausted, he sat down in the corner on the mattress of pine needles.

“We can’t make a larger fire,” Hulot said. “Even this might be too much already. The gorge shields us from direct view, but I would rather not chance it.”

“Very well,” Corentin muttered and drew off the threadbare skirt to wrap it around his shoulders. As he had feared, it made little difference. Tired, he lay down—then pushed himself back up.

“Wait. Let me look at your shoulder again before you extinguish the light.”

Hulot gave him an unreadable look.

“It’s nothing,” he said, but made his way over to Corentin, stiffly sitting down by his side.

Even though Hulot remained quiet, Corentin could feel his body tense when he pulled away the shirt and the makeshift bandage. The cotton had soaked up more blood—but the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding at last.

“Good,” Corentin murmured before he tied it into place again. “You won’t bleed to death in your sleep.”

Hulot laughed softly. “I could have told you that. His wasn’t the first blade to taste my blood. It will heal in a few days. Rifoel’s wounds, I fear, won’t heal so quickly. The cannon is a harsher adversary than the blade.”

The cave seemed darker than before after Hulot extinguished his light. Corentin was keenly aware of every little sound—the creaking of branches outside, the distant howl of an animal, the sigh of the wind as it found its way into the gorge.

The cave protected them from the weather, but even so it was cold. Corentin drew the skirt tighter around his shoulders, but it did not help much. Longingly, he thought of his woolen coat in the color of his eyes—had there not been some sensible woolen skirt Hulot could have stolen, if he had to insist on this disguise?

It was perhaps a ploy Corentin himself would have chosen, if Hulot had not acted first—it did make a certain kind of sense, and might distract at least for a short while from the Chouans hunting for two men. Nevertheless, now that the excitement and terror of the past hours fell away, he found himself shivering in the cold, achingly jealous of the goatskin that was certain to keep Hulot warm.

He must have dozed off for a while, but when he opened his eyes again, the cave was still dark, and he was colder than ever. It was the discomfort that had woken him—that, and the chattering of his teeth.

He tried to curl up more tightly beneath the meager blanket of his threadbare skirt, rubbing his arms with his hands. It did not help much. It seemed impossible to find sleep like this—the cold had crept into his bones until his body seemed to dully ache with it, and no matter how he shifted, he could not get comfortable.

“Will you stop making such a noise, citizen spy,” Hulot finally muttered. “I am trying to sleep.”

“So am I,” Corentin said—or tried to, at least, for his teeth would not stop chattering. Pointedly, he turned again, facing away from Hulot, and resigned himself to staring miserably out into the dark cave for the rest of the night—or at least until exhaustion would grow stronger than his current misery.

A moment passed. Then, with a weary sigh, Hulot shifted behind him. Corentin stiffened when an arm came to rest heavy around his waist, drawing him against Hulot. Then the goatskin was drawn over both of them.

Hulot was warm. It was difficult not to relax into it, especially when his entire body was aching with the cold.

After a moment, Corentin surrendered, pressing back against Hulot’s chest. He was grateful for the heat, no matter their earlier disagreements, and even the rank smell of the goatskin now seemed almost pleasant—it was a much warmer blanket than the thin skirt had been, and together with the heat generated by Hulot’s body, the miserable cold abated little by little, until his teeth stopped chattering and his limbs no longer shivered.

He fell asleep like that. He did not wake until the first light of dawn filled the cave—which meant that no one had found their hiding place during the night, and that he had not frozen to death either. His head was resting on something soft. When he at last opened his eyes, it turned out that sometime during the night, he had shifted around and was now clinging to Hulot in a rather embarrassing manner, sleeping half atop him as if his body had sought to maximize contact with his sole source of heat during the night.

Hulot’s good arm was still wrapped tightly around him, using Corentin as much as a blanket as Corentin had used him as a replacement for a stove, although Corentin had no doubt that Hulot would deny ever having done so as soon as he opened his eyes.

It was strange to realize that Hulot was not entirely without appeal as a bedfellow. His body was strong and gave off a very pleasant heat. For all that Corentin had found himself irritated by Hulot’s foolishness so common to soldiers, he could not deny that he was grateful Hulot had come to his defense—and the strength of his arms was a rather becoming feature, even though it was still difficult to look at his clean-shaven face and short hair without laughing.

Corentin shifted a little, intending to press his hand to Hulot’s forehead, merely to make certain that the heat he exuded was natural and not the result of a fever, but it seemed that his movement, at last, was enough to rouse Hulot.

A hand shot out, clenching around Corentin’s wrist. At the same moment, Corentin’s thigh came to rest between Hulot’s legs, and he realized abruptly that Hulot might be more appreciative of his company than he had given Corentin reason to think. At least his body, it appeared, had no objection against sharing his goatskin with Corentin.

Hulot’s hand was still clenched around Corentin’s wrist. His wounded arm had gone for the saber, which now slowly dropped as they stared at each other: Corentin silent and shocked, Hulot, it seemed, just as speechless at the situation he found himself in.

Corentin looked at him for a moment.

“It seems you object far less to my presence than you have given me reason to believe, Commander.” Slowly and deliberately, he ground his thigh against the hardness in Hulot’s trousers, who groaned in response but kept his hold on Corentin’s wrist.

“You truly are the devil.” Hulot was breathing hard. Then he released Corentin’s wrist. “Do that again, and I won’t be responsible for any consequences.”

Hulot’s voice was still rough from sleep—or perhaps it had a different cause, for Corentin could still feel the heat of his arousal even through his doeskin breeches.

The sensation was not unpleasant at all. In fact, there was a certain triumph to knowing that he could have this effect on Hulot, who so far had treated him as little more than a meddling nuisance he was most eager to get rid off, when Corentin’s plan had far greater chances of results than all the efforts of the Republican army in the Vendée so far.

Instead of moving away, Corentin leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand placed on the pine needles next to Hulot’s head while he pressed his thigh teasingly forward once more.

Hulot’s retaliation was as quick as might be expected from the chief of a half-brigade .

Hulot’s hand came up to curve around the back of Corentin’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss while Corentin ground down against Hulot’s thigh until the goatskin started to slip from his back, letting in an unwelcome gust of cold air.

Shivering, Corentin pulled back, breathing hard as he found himself staring down at Hulot once more, who was watching him with an expression that was situated somewhere between disbelief and thoughtfulness.

“I do believe I owe you my life,” Corentin murmured. “And I would rather not be in your debt...”

Hulot was still watching him. Corentin glanced at his shoulder, but it seemed that the wound had not reopened during the night—nor did it seem to be infected, if Hulot’s vigor was anything to go by.

He traced a hand down until he found the fall of Hulot’s trousers, then hastily unbuttoned them and reached inside to draw Hulot out.

It was not unpleasant at all to hold him in his hand, and Corentin found himself wondering all of a sudden if they could have come to a more cordial relationship if he had tried such an approach from the beginning.

And yet, he had never been anything but helpful from the start. It had been Hulot who had sneered at his occupation and his fashionable clothes—but then, what else could be expected from a soldier? A soldier was good for the battlefield—and there, he now had to admit, Hulot’s skills were indeed an asset. Perhaps all else might be forgiven, even if Corentin doubted that he would ever see sense in Hulot’s infuriating notions of what he called honesty, and what Corentin privately believed was merely the foolishness of a man who could not see the greater plan—for what was at stake here was not merely one man’s honor but the fate of an entire nation.

“You are not in my debt,” Hulot said, although his shaft had thickened in Corentin’s hand and did not seem to mind the attention at all. “There is no need to—”

“I think,” Corentin said, leaning forward again, “that there is a lot of need. See, I can feel it; right _here_ —” He let his thumb circle the head of Hulot’s cock and was rewarded by a groan and then a curse.

“A thousand thunders!” Hulot said roughly. “Have it your way then, spy.”

“No, lets have it your way,” Corentin said generously, now that he felt that he had regained the upper hand. “If it’s not debt, let’s call it gratitude then. What will you have?”

“Whatever it takes to make you shut your mouth,” Hulot muttered, then used his good arm to roughly pull Corentin into another kiss, from which he pulled away breathlessly long moments later. “This suits me well enough.”

His hard shaft was still throbbing in Corentin’s hand, and Corentin’s own cock had risen to similar attention. He would be content enough to finish their encounter in this fashion—but Hulot had fought a duel for him, had taken a blade meant for Corentin, and after all, he had already resigned himself to a night of rough play in Rifoel’s bedchamber...

“I think this will suit you even better.” Corentin slid down until he was covered by the goatskin once more and his mouth found the hard length that awaited him.

Hulot seemed to enjoy his attentions—for all that Hulot had rarely found a good word for Corentin before, the sounds he now made were all of encouragement and deep satisfaction, which in turn was pleasing to Corentin. Despite the inhospitable surroundings and the rank-smelling goatskin that covered him, Hulot truly was pleasant enough to behold beneath his disguise, and while Corentin might have preferred the commander’s fine bedroom in Fougères, he’d rather have Hulot’s company in a miserable cave than Rifoel’s in a sumptuous bedroom.

Corentin ran a hand along a pleasantly-muscled thigh as he sucked Hulot deep into his mouth. Ordinarily, he might have taken the time to find out what it was Hulot liked, for he liked to think himself a generous lover, but right now, with the goatskin only barely protecting him from the chilly air, and with nothing but dry pine needles beneath his knees, he sucked him quickly and sloppily, drawing back when Hulot’s shaft was firm and wet with his saliva.

“Don’t,” he said when Hulot reached out for him with a protesting sound. “Your shoulder. Here, let me...”

He winced at the coldness of the air when the goatskin slipped from his shoulder when he sat up. Even so, he was not to be deterred. Hastily, he rid himself off his own breeches, half-cursing at the effort it took, and ignoring Hulot’s laughter—for all that they were fashionable, their tightness did indeed make it near impossible to speedily undress. When he was done, enough cold air had penetrated beneath the goatskin to make him shiver, although Hulot, at least, still performed his duty as Corentin’s personal stove most admirably.

Hulot’s prick was still ready for action, standing as straight as a blade. Corentin straddled Hulot again and then slowly sank down.

There was some discomfort, but he ignored it—perhaps, he thought, Hulot might not be entirely averse to a repetition of the encounter if they made it back to Fougères, and then they would have the means to ease the discomfort. But for now, Corentin was not in the mood to wait, especially as the hours wrapped around Hulot’s not entirely unimpressive body had kindled a certain hunger within him as well.

Hulot groaned again as Corentin sank down on him, the commander’s sword at last fully sheathed inside him so that Corentin had to close his eyes for a moment, coldness and goatskins forgotten as he panted for breath.

When Hulot stirred beneath him, Corentin leaned forward and pinned Hulot’s good shoulder to the ground, glaring at him for good measure. “Don’t. You’ll hurt your shoulder.”

Hulot laughed hoarsely, but stopped all attempts to move when Corentin rose up a little, only to sink back down again. The sensation forced a gasp from him—the girth of Hulot’s sword was indeed pleasing, almost unbearably so, the aching stretch quickly forgotten at the way at the way Hulot filled him now, every motion making him gasp.

“You enjoy it too much to be in command,” Hulot muttered darkly, looking up at him, but he made no move to try and break free.

“Given that you are wounded, mon général,” Corentin replied breathlessly, “it seems that you will simply have to trust that I am capable of doing the work.”

“It is little more than a scratch—” Hulot blessedly fell silent when Corentin rose a little, only to slide back down onto him.

Corentin could hardly say what was more pleasant: Hulot’s sword buried deep inside him, the firmness of it within him driving him nearly mad with need as he rode it the way he had ridden his little Arab to Saint-James with nary a break, or the way that for once, Hulot was forced to give way to Corentin’s authority, whether he liked it or not.

And as much as Hulot might pretend to complain, he liked it well enough, even though he would certainly never admit it.

Hulot’s brow was gleaming with sweat. His eyes had fallen closed. The usually so imperious mouth had relaxed. No, Hulot did not at all look like the man who had damned him to hell and back, and Corentin felt a smile tug on his own lips.

Was here not another undeniable proof that the art of diplomacy and covert tactics were vastly superior to the frontal assault the soldier seemed to favor?

It might be Hulot’s cock sheathed deep inside his body right now—but they both knew who was truly in charge here.

“You think too loudly,” Hulot muttered a moment later. Then his hand curved once more around Corentin’s neck, pulling him down so harshly that Corentin gasped against Hulot’s lips, the sudden shift in position causing a change in angle that made his back arch, his hips losing their rhythm as Hulot’s cock now pressed with relentless firmness into him.

“Your shoulder,” he panted against Hulot’s mouth, who groaned beneath him, his own hips coming up to meet Corentin’s.

“God’s thunder! The devil can take my shoulder!”

Hulot’s hand buried itself in Corentin’s hair, clenching firmly around a fistful of his locks so that Corentin found himself unable to do anything but moan helplessly against Hulot’s warm skin as his body spent itself, tightening around Hulot until he found his own release inside him.

There was an uncomfortably cold breeze. Corentin twitched unhappily.

A moment later, Hulot pulled the goatskin back into position with a low laugh.

“Maybe if you’d dressed sensibly, Rifoel would never had the idea to cut those clothes off you.”

“Maybe if I’d dressed in a way you think sensibly, he would have killed me sensibly, just as Montauran killed your men,” Corentin retorted, completely happy to listen to Hulot insult his fashion as long as it meant that he got to continue to rest against Hulot’s pleasantly warm body.

“Maybe I’ll have to do as Rifoel did, the next time I see you dressed like a parrot.”

Affronted, Corentin at last pushed himself up far enough to see Hulot’s face—though not far enough to chance the intrusion of more cold air beneath the goatskin.

To his surprise, he found that Hulot was smiling. Indeed, Hulot seemed rather cheerful for a man who had been wounded and cut off from his half-brigade, and had only a tired old horse to outrace a thousand Chouans.

“If you get us both home safely, mon général,” Corentin said, “perhaps I will find a new set of clothes just for the purpose of letting you sharpen your blade on it.”

“I accept your challenge,” Hulot said—and then his hand slid down Corentin’s back until it found his backside, where it remained, content to squeeze him as if to ascertain whether Corentin might be up for a repetition of their morning exercise.

Which Corentin, he found to his great surprise, was not entirely averse to.

A heartbeat later, he gasped in outrage when Hulot pulled the goatskin off him, baring his naked body to the chill of the cave—only to give his buttocks a swat with his uninjured arm.

“And don’t believe I have forgotten a different promise you made. A surrender to military discipline, for your appalling conduct.”

His backside stung. Corentin would not be at all surprised to see that his skin was currently adorned by an imprint of Hulot’s hand, but given the state of their current lodgings, there was no mirror for him to use.

Instead, he rose to his feet, gritting his teeth against the cold as he gingerly rubbed his backside.

“I might have said that,” he muttered, “but I rather thought that my conduct tonight might have shifted your opinion of me.”

“It has,” Hulot said with infuriating satisfaction as he rose slowly, pulling his goatskin back into place around himself with one hand. “Which doesn’t change the fact that discipline is discipline—where would the Grande Armée be without it? A lesson you would benefit from, citizen spy. Though I won’t deny that I will be glad to teach it more for my own sake than yours.”

“If we make it back alive,” Corentin said—in which case, he would gladly accept whatever form Hulot’s discipline took.

Shivering, he pulled his breeches back on, the leather cold and stiff against his skin. Outside, morning sunlight had begun to fill the gorge. He could hear the song of birds; the old nag was shuffling through the dried leaves that covered the ground.

“Do you think they’ve given up their search? They must think that we’ve made it back to Fougères by now.”

Hulot eyed the sky, his gaze lingering on the bushes that grew near the top of the gorge, then finally shook his head, dismissing them.

“Montauran seemed deeply angered. You made an enemy. But we aren’t far from where some of my men will meet us. Keep up the disguise—we don’t know who we might encounter in the forest.”

There was the sound of a bird again. Corentin narrowed his eyes at Hulot, who had turned away from him to ready the horse for the continuation of their journey.

Corentin turned back to survey the vegetation that grew around the gorge. He could see nothing amiss—no tell-tale glimmer of metal, not even the sound of a breaking twig.

No, if anyone was watching them, it was not the Chouans; Hulot would be a lot more concerned if that were the case.

Had one or two of Hulot’s men kept watch over the cave at night?

Corentin realized all of a sudden that if that were the case, the sounds they had made this morning had been rather unmistakable.

Eyes still narrowed, he glared at a nearby bush. A moment later, a lark sang out mockingly.

Corentin turned away from it in determination to where Hulot was already waiting for him astride the old horse. He grabbed Hulot’s hand, not protesting this time when Hulot placed him as it pleased him—half on his lap, seated in front of him, manhandling him effortlessly even with only one good arm, as if Corentin was indeed no more than some peasant girl he had taken with him from Saint-James.

Still, all in all, it could have turned out a lot worse for Corentin. He was alive, he was half-way back to Fougères, and although it now seemed rather likely that no amount of scheming might win him Marie back, he might have just found a most unlikely ally.

Corentin shivered again when the wind picked up, crossing his arms to try and keep the slashed shirt as tightly wrapped around himself as he could.

A moment later, Hulot stirred behind him. Corentin found himself drawn against Hulot’s pleasantly firm—and warm—chest. Then Hulot wrapped the goatskin around both of them.

His backside was still smarting, but to his surprise, Corentin found himself smiling as their horse slowly picked its way through the gorge, relaxing back against Hulot. Perhaps it would not be the worst thing to let Hulot bring him back to Fougères like a ravished peasant girl. At least it meant that he was warm.

And truth be told, there were much worse places to be than Hulot’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> The markings in the cave are modelled after the megalithic art of [Gavrinis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gavrinis).


End file.
